Sieg Heil, Mein Major
by Phantom Drache
Summary: A character study into the mind of a war-loving sociopath, thrown into a world already on the brink of collapse. Features many familiar and new faces in a world not quite how you remember it. *Please note, the Author does not support Nazism in any way, shape, or form*
1. Chapter 1

**Seig Heil, Mein Major**

 **Chapter 1: Wiedergeburt**

 **Seig Heil! Seig Heil! Seig Heil!**

On a downed zeppelin in the heart of London, a trio of odd figures lay. One male, and two females, situated on opposite sides of a large room. Broken equipment and shattered glass surround the three.

Of the two women, one wears a black blazer and black dress pants, a white buttoned shirt, black shoes and a red cravat. She also wears a pair of circular wire-rimmed glasses, and a dark green trench coat. Blue of eyes, this is Sir Integra Fairbrook Wingates Van Hellsing: Leader of the Hellsing Operation and one of the most influential people in England.

The other wears a dark red uniform, torn in various places, as well as black thigh-high stockings, ankle fold brown boots, and brown gloves. Her eyes are a vibrant, literally glowing red. This is Seras Victoria: Vampire bodyguard and former police girl.

The third and final member, like his two companions, is blonde in hair color and light of eyes, though his are a bright gold rather than blue or red. Somewhat on the heftier side of things, his hair is oddly styled, with a longer section coming up and then down again on the front left side of his head. For clothing he wears an expensive white suit with a long matching overcoat, white gloves, glasses, and a black tie with a red gem on it.

Of course, said suit, coat, gloves, and tie are covered in a mixture of red blood and darkly tinted oil. The glasses are broken on the left side, and the man himself appears to be missing most of his left side, exposing both guts and machinery.

This is The Major, his real name discarded a long time ago. Leader of the Millenium Nazi Reich, master manipulator and orator, as well as war enthusiast. Over the last several hours, he had lead an army of pseudo-vampires in a siege against London itself, turning the city into a burning hellscape.

He had even just witnessed the final culmination of all his efforts result in success. Alucard, Dracula, the monster with the body of a man, had just unwittingly fallen into The Major's trap. Having drunk the blood of experimental soldier Schrodinger, Alucards very mind had been torn to shreds, and scattered about space and time, seemingly killing him.

The Major couldn't be happier, despite the fact that he was staring down two very irate women who no doubts have plans to expedite the dreadfully slow process of bleeding out. Honestly, the whole situation was, in his eyes, perfect.

A bloody war resulting in thousands of deaths, his mortal foe vanquished at last, and even his own violent end had come for him. After so many years, so many decades, waiting for this day, The Major was jubilant beyond words.

"I planted the seeds of this war half a century ago...now, show me what has blossomed."

Slowly, and with dramatic flair that the Major can appreciate given his own tendency for over-the-top behaviour, Integra takes off her coat, and pulls out a gun while walking towards the Major.

His remaining gloved hand reaches down, grabbing his own pistol, which he aims at the figure approaching him. He pulls the trigger, sending a bullet flying past her head, missing by nearly a full two feet.

Part machine he may have been, but that really only increased his life-span and did little in the way of enhancing his physical capabilities. Case in point, another bullet rips from his gun, this time missing by another two feet on the opposite side of Integra's head.

In all his life, he had somehow managed to never once hit any target smaller than the broad-side of a barn. Another bullet fired from his gun, this one hitting the ground at Integras feet. Another shot, another miss, over and over.

Finally, Integra stands not five feet away from The Major, and raises her own gun for the first time. Simultaneously, two bullets launch into the air between them. One buries itself into The Majors head, sending a small splatter of blood into the air above him as his head jerks backwards. The other bullet only just barely hits Integra, ripping through the side of her left eye but completely missing anything more important.

"I finally hit something." His smile, which was perpetually on his face, stretched from ear to ear, imperceptibly widens just a little. As his body slams into the cold hard metal beneath him, his mind can only focus on one thing.

"Ah, excellent... This was exactly...what I hoped my war would be." And with that, The Major closes his eyes, his smile not fading an inch, and the world slowly falls away from him.

At first everything was unbelievably hot, as if the blazing iron of the fired bullet had somehow spread throughout his body. Then everything was freezing cold, as the machinery in him stopped ticking and his body started to shut down, and it's methods of homeostasis were rendered inert. Evidently he had spent too much time around the Doktor, if he was analyzing his own death in such a clinical fashion.

After the cold came, it went just as easily, along with all other feeling. Finally, all that was left was the sensation of simply existing, which The Major expected to fade away as well any moment now, something that both rankled and excited him.

The thought of death had never scared him, and he had even spent many a night looking forward to his own demise, intentionally leaving holes in his plans that others might exploit as the fair lady Integra and her pet Vampires had eventually done.

However, on the other hand it bothered him intensely that he might simply disappear. For fifty years, he had forced his body to survive, running off of the Doktors mad science and sheer determination. His will, his undeniably human spirit, that was what had kept him going for so long, both literally and metaphorically. The thought that it might simply fade away went against the very core of his being.

'What was the phrase? Ah, yes. Do not go gently into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.' Yes, that sounded more like him, The Major thought.

Not that it would make much difference, he believes. The wounds he had sustained were severe enough that even had the Doktor been in the room when The Major had been injured, there was no way he would be able to survive. Then why? Why was he still aware enough to think about all this?

The darkness surrounding him had not lessened, and any attempt at movement was met with failure to so much as feel any of his limbs, even the ones he hadn't recently lost. All in all, The Major was increasingly becoming bored, which for him is the worst of all fates.

'Ah, perhaps this is Hell after all? I might have found some enjoyment from pitchforks and torches, especially if I could observe others sharing my fate, so perhaps nothingness is my punishment.'

As time dragged on, and the concept of boredom became more and more pronounced, The Major became less and less pleased. If he had a face, he might have even dropped his trademark smile. This lack of existence was infuriating.

'Nein! I refuse! I shall not simply sit here and wait for the silence to take my mind. Nor shall I let myself fade away. I am me. I own every part of myself. Mein Herz, meine Seele, mein Leben, they are mine! I am me!'

Slowly, light starts to develop around The Major's peripherals. A great, burning light, golden in color much like his hair and eyes had been. It was as if a pyre had been started, and The Majors very soul was both fuel and blaze combined.

"I. Am. Me!" And with that announcement of pure determination, the golden glow burns brightly in the void, just as blinding as if The Major had stared at the sun itself. Suddenly, agony rips through his body once more.

Desperately trying - and failing miserably - to hold back howls of pain, a portion of The Majors mind is curious on how he can even feel pain anymore, as well as the fact that he can clearly feel what would be a left arm and leg, which he was distinctly lacking last he checked. As his mind starts to shut down in order to deal with the experience, he can faintly hear voices.

"Lively one, isn't he?" Realising that he not only has eyes once more, but that they're closed, he tries to open at least one of them, only for it to fall closed just as swiftly, his only vision of the world around him being a large curtain of white.

And so The Major sleeps. Honestly, it's the best sleep he's gotten in ages. The knowledge that he had achieved at least one of his grand goals in life - the endless war was kind of a bust, but so long as humanity existed so would war, so he doesn't feel too bad about that - lead to him actually enjoying slumber for the first time in a long while, instead of viewing it as a momentary reprieve from his near constant efforts to make sure his numerous plans panned out properly.

When his eyes open once more, he leisurely takes his time cataloging his situation. And the results of this catalogue make him raise an eyebrow, which takes a considerable amount of effort.

On all sides are great white bars that seem to stretch upward for quite some time. Beneath him is a sea of blue fabric. His body, while about as pudgy as he remembers it, is oddly proportioned. And he most certainly remembers the fact that he had not worn a diaper in a span of time working on a century.

Moving his mouth he spits out a hunk of plastic. A pacifier. How quaint. Of course, his logical mind wars against the rising anticipation of his inner, mostly hidden, otaku side. He recognises this. Well, not this exact scene, but close enough to it.

Taking another look around his new chambers proves his otaku side correct. He appears to have been reborn as a babe, laying still within a crib, the room around him no doubt his new residence, or perhaps simply a nursery. The distant door, perhaps no more than two or three meters away in reality, looks simply gargantuan and the pale blue and brilliant white decorations on the walls look suited to what one might see in a baby boys new domain.

A quick shuffle of his hips reveals that he is in fact still male, not that it particularly mattered to him. Even before he had been more machine than man, he had never been particularly popular with the ladies. It was simply another box on his mental checklist to cross off.

Suddenly, with a cacophonous sound that nearly gives The Major a headache, the door opens up, and a maid enters the room. Fairly pale of skin, and dark in hair and eye, she moves calmly towards the newly reborn Major, before sweeping him up.

"Good morning, young master. It is time for breakfast." It takes the Major a moment to recall how exactly most infants are fed, and another moment for his brain to restart after the thought runs through his mind.

Thankfully, before he can go through the process of figuring out how he would feel about being breastfed, the maid pulls out a plastic bottle with a soft plastic nipple, which is summarily shoved into his mouth.

A tad grumpy, he sucks away at the thing, only to have to force himself to not gag on the taste. How on earth were children able to drink this stuff? Perhaps it's his fault, having used a sizable amount of the funding he and his army had...acquired over the years, so to speak, in order to feed himself with only the finest of meals.

The second worst five minutes of his life later - nearly dying the first time still takes the place at number one - and the born-again-nazi was placed back into his bed, his eyes feeling oddly heavy.

'Mein Gott, i'd forgotten how much time children use to simply sleep. This is going to be a long ordeal, waiting for my body to be developed enough to figure out where I am.' And with that, he slept once more. When he awoke again, several hours later, he took some time to ponder his situation.

A somewhat secret hobby of The Major's had been spending several evenings enjoying the various forms of media that Japan produced. They may not have been too much help during World War 2, but they made up for it with such hilarious works of art, at least in his opinion.

A common theme among a certain section of their works would be the concept of 'isekai', or 'a new world', in which a character found themselves mysteriously transported to an alternate reality. It would appear the The Major had found himself in a similar situation, and it filled his new infantile heart with glee.

A new world, with new people. An all new canvas upon which to paint his vision. Is this what the Furor had felt, looking out upon Germany the first time he had had his visions of a Millenium Empire? Well, minus the racism.

A Nazi The Major may have been, but honestly, it was only for the violence. He could care less what color skin a person had, or what chunk of dirt they called home. All of them bleed the same red blood in the end. War is a universal constant, uncaring of who you were or what you were fighting for.

It was pondering what sort of worlds he might now live in that The Major finally met his new 'family' on his second day in this world. The door had opened, revealing another maid - for it was never the same one twice - who picked him up. Instead of feeding him though, she started walking off, taking The Major with her.

Taking this time to finally learn about his home, The Major came to one gleeful revelation rather quickly. Apparently, his new family was loaded. The short five minute jaunt took The MAjor across enough floor space that he can safely call this place a mansion, and he spied no less than a dozen maids and half as many butlers scattered about, taking care of one task or another.

Statues were littered about the place, as were portraits of a family of white haired folk. All of them with the last name 'Schnee' on the plaques beneath the paintings. Taking a peak into a nearby reflective surface, The Major finally spies his new appearance.

Dazzling blue eyes, and hair that was closer to silver than it was white. He supposes that this makes him a 'Schnee' as well. How fortunate. Here's hoping he doesn't end up having to become half machine again.

Finally, the maid ends up delivering The Major to a room, with three other people. One, a slightly older looking gentleman with the beginnings of a mustache on his lips. Another two are young girls, both of which older than The Major's new form, though by varying amounts.

The smaller one he would suppose is only one or two years old, with the other being five or six. All three have the same white hair that would appear so common in the primary family of the house, making them not only Schnees, but also The Major's new 'family'. Curiously, the figure who would no doubt be his mother is nowhere to be seen.

"Ah, thank you Clara. I'll take him from here." The older male stands from his desk, and walks around to take you from the maid.

Handing The Major's soft and vulnerable form over, the maid bows before swiftly exiting the room. The man sighs before slinking back into his chair, practically falling into it.

Now that The Major looks, while the youngest seems mostly confused and curious, the older girl looks a bit sad, as if trying to hide it, and the man looks as though he hasn't slept in a few days. Speaking of, he starts to speak.

"Hello there son. Nice to meet you. I'm Jacques Schnee, your dad. These're your sisters, Winter" the older one gives a nod "and Weiss." the younger one practically bounces up to the now named Jacques to say hello to her 'brother'.

"Your name is Whitley Schnee. The newest, and sadly last addition to our family. I know you won't understand for a long time, but I want you to know that I don't blame you."

The man keeps talking for a while, and while The Major - or rather Whitley as it would appear his new name is - makes sure to listen, his mind is on other things. Apparently his entrance into this world was as violent as his exit from his last.

Oh well. Not like he knew the woman, and he doubts that even if he did, he'd really care. He'd seen far more than enough death in his extended lifetime to feel remorse over something completely out of his control. If anything, he might feel a hint of disdain over the fact that the ladies death hadn't been his choice.

And that was how The Major, Nazi soldier and leader of Millenium, ended up with a new name and a new face in an alternate reality. Across his infantile face, a smile so wide and filled with genuine joy and excitement spread from ear to ear, making him look like he was half-way through a laugh.

His father, unaware of what he had wrought upon his home world, merely stroked his sons hair and continued talking about anything and everything. Although the inhabitants of this world - who only know it as 'Remnant' - didn't know it yet, a third player had been added to the shadowy game of chess being played with their lives as pieces. What a shame then, that he was never much good at chess. He much prefered Risk.

 **Seig Heil! Seig Heil! Seig Heil!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Wachstum**

 **Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!**

At 9 months, Whitley's legs were finally strong and stable enough for him to comfortably walk without fear of breaking his nose on the floor. Where most children almost immediately started running about, the former Major was content to meander at a leisurely pace.

At 18 months, his vocal cords were developed enough for him to mostly string a full sentence together. Thankfully, this realm seemed to use English as the base language, or at least those in the immediate area treated it as such. While the Major was far more fluent in German, his English was passable enough for a teenage child learning the language, let alone a toddler so there was no difficulty there.

At age three, he was fully capable of clothing himself and holding small talk with his sisters. He took to clothing himself, not so much because he didn't want to let the maids dress him, but rather it had simply become a habit after nearly 80 years of doing the same in his last life, and being unable to do so for three years bothered him.

At age four, he figured he was of an appropriate age to start 'learning' how to read, and started to make frequent trips to the family library. At first, the maids and his sisters were insistent on 'helping' him, but after he took a mere month to 'learn' to read basic childrens books, he had been labelled a 'genius' and left to go about reading at his own schedule.

Of course, if he were to be caught reading college level books at age four he might be found out, and he had had enough of being under the scalpel to last a life time. A wry grin always overtakes his face when he thinks that particular turn of phrase. So, in order to 'hide' what he was reading, he would take the book he actually wanted to read, and place a much smaller, lower level book in front of it.

Any who saw this would think he was simply embarrassed to read 'kid books', and not think that he was actually using them as a cover to read his 'cover' book. A plan within a plan, how delectable. If only he wasn't restrained in making such devious plots on a grander scale. Oh, how he waits to become older once more!

At age five, Whitley was pretty sure he had a solid grasp on the world around him. The world went by the name 'Remnant', held three species - those being normal Humans, the animal themed Faunus (which made Whitley sigh nostalgically), and the mindless beasts known as the Grimm - and was divided into four (and a half) nations. The four nations being Vale, Vacuo, Mistral, and Atlas - which is where Whitley and the rest of the Schnees live. Menagerie, the 'home' of the Faunus, was considered a sort of micro-nation.

Moving on, the Grimm were some sort of not-quite natural beasts - he suspects sorcery is at play on that end - who need neither sleep nor water, and hunger only for the flesh of the living. Naturally, people took exception to this, and responded to violence with more violence, as is the human way.

There are also two additions to this reality that have shaped it's cultural and societal structure. The first is that of Dust. Even though he hadn't had any talent for the mystic arts as The Major, Whitley was still at least knowledgeable enough to know at a glance that the crystals that people have taken to calling 'Dust' are actually some sort of natural accumulation and condensation of mystical energies.

He's willing to bet that if he had an accurate map of Remnants Ley Lines, most spots where Dust is found in large amounts would fall on locations where two or more Ley Lines cross. Perhaps a side-project? Thoughts for later.

Anyways, Dust was useful for a great many things. Depending on the magical energies that compose of the majority of the Dust crystal, activating it unleashes one of several effects. Flame oriented Dust released waves of heat and fire. Ice Dust creates ice and cold, and so on and so on. The discovery of Dust, credited to one Jaeger Schnee some twenty generations ago, was treated in this world much like the discovery of electricity in The Major's world.

Everything uses Dust nowadays. Furnaces are powered by fire Dust, Cars by electric Dust, and freezers use ice Dust. Whitley has to give that while their dependence on Dust is a bit baffling at times, at least they aren't creating any carbon pollution while doing so. Sure, digging up the earth to get to Dust isn't exactly good, but it's infinitely better than fossil fuels, which apparently went out of style soon after the Grimm made their faces known.

The second aspect is something much more interesting to Whitley on a spiritual level, and only because the people of this world treat chunks of solid magic as science, which baffles Whitley every time he forgets that fact and see's someone hold a Dust Crystal and use it for the most mundane of tasks.

Moving on, the 'magical' discovery of the ages is Aura. Nobody knows exactly who first discovered it, or where it originates. All anybody knows is that all humans (and Faunus) have Aura, while the creatures of Grimm do not.

Now, this is where the more interesting alternations in the world start to become apparent. In his time as The Major, Magic was treated like a joke by the general population, and like a form of art to those with the knowledge and power. Most magic was in the form of either Ritual magic or Wild magic.

Wild magic was, in essence, taking raw power and forcing some sort of change upon the world through force of will. It was how Alucard utilized most of his abilities, how the Captain shifted his forms and increased his strength, and how Schrodinger didn't accidentally tear his existence apart from simply existing. However, where Wild magic was easy to call upon and incredibly powerful, it was notorious for being nearly impossible to control, hence why so few people used it in any large amounts.

Ritual magic on the other hand is more similar to the magic most people think of: all circles and symbols and chants in the moonlight. Through a careful process of carefully aligning circumstances and ingredients in an almost scientific manner, one could enact a specific change upon reality.

It took far longer, and the results were typically weaker than if one used wild magic to do the same thing, but the benefit was that you had far greater control over what happened, and could enchant objects with long-lasting abilities. Walter made his trademark gloves using ritual magic, as did Rip Van Winkle when making her gun.

In Remnant, however, it would appear that magic is far more prevalent. Whitley could already gather that, given crystals formed from raw magic were rare enough back during his time on Earth that a single crystal the size of the smallest commercial power Dust gem would be worth a mountain with gold veins in it, and Dust is plentiful and can appear in clusters the size of a grown man in this world, though those latter ones are remarkably rare.

Back on track: in Remnant, a trace amount of Wild magic runs through all people. For the most part the magic takes the form of 'Aura' which empowers the wielder to levels that match what Whitley had seen Vampires do, as well as granting them a 'field' of protection that absorbs damage.

It also grants them mystical abilities. The form this takes is in 'Semblances', which are what really amount to super-powers in your typical American comic. Not everyone with Aura unlocks their Semblance, and if they do then their semblance is typically incredibly powerful, but also incredibly limited in that they can only use it for the one thing.

The Schnee family Semblance of 'Glyphs' though, is a bit different than usual. For starters, it's the only recorded case where a Semblance is repeated without alteration across multiple people and even multiple generations. It's also the closest that the world comes to the Magic the Whitley is familiar with.

Each Glyph, once broken down, is really just a fairly complex magical formula designed to create a certain effect. These effects range from elemental manipulations to altering the flow of time on a local level.

A particular Glyph that catches Whitley's eyes is one that captures an 'echo' of those that a Schnee defeats in combat, allowing them to call upon their form for strength later on. Quite fascinating really, though limited in its immediate use. Or use in general considering a frequently stressed point in the Schnee family notes is that one must defeat the entity with one's own hand in order to summon their echo, and Whitley's never been much of one to dirty his hands by personally disposing of people.

Moving past that, there's really not a lot to talk about. Society is pretty normal, there aren't any living gods roaming about, humans and Faunus are the only sentient species on the planet as well as the only ones with magic, and despite several recorded attempts on the matter there's been no confirmation that demons exist and plan to invade/take over the planet. Honestly it's almost a let-down.

Whitley stands up from a rather comfortable velvet cushion chair in the library, feeling a few bones pop as he stretches the cramps in his legs out. Meandering over to a shelf to put the book he had been reading - one about the ceremony where people unlock children's Aura at the general age of 10, referred to as the 'Awakening' - he pauses as he thinks over what he might have been expecting.

Perhaps what's missing would be an rpg Stats Screen, Skills, and Inventory, and everyone could be regular old video game characters. Whitley half-heartedly expects some sort of blue box to appear in the air after thinking that, and chuckles lightly when it doesn't, raising the attention of a new butler. Klein if he remembers correctly. Whitley waves him off. Such a thing would simply have been too ridiculous.

Moving right along in his train of thought as he makes his way to dinner, Whitley ponders another aspect of Remnant. The social ladder, which is pretty much exactly the same as how it was back on Earth, with one exception.

The exception is that the people with Aura and combat training, called Hunters and basically demigods, have taken the place of about 90% of the military force in this world. They also rank at the top of the proverbial food-chain, with even leaders of Countries listening in when a powerful Hunter speaks, and both Atlas and Vale have had more Hunters as rulers than they have politicians.

Within the Hunter society, people are ranked from D to S, with D being the cannon fodder of Hunters and S being the living legends. These ranks are officially regulated and tested, creating a chain of command. Through some process - not explained in the books he'd read so far - when someone goes through their Awakening, their latent talent is accessed and also ranked.

The five categories you're ranked in are : Aura Capacity, Enhancement, Regeneration, Shielding, and Recharge. Capacity is pretty straight forward, Enhancement is how well you can channel Aura through your body to strengthen it, Regeneration is how efficiently and quickly your Aura heals you when you get wounded, Shielding is how much damage your Aura absorbs and how much it lets through, and Recharge is how quickly you recover Aura after using it.

One interesting factor in all this is how, with overall lower population numbers, most militaries are comprised of about a thousand or so Hunters rather than millions of soldiers. Noticeable exceptions are Menagerie - who isn't technically allowed to have a standing army - and Vacuo, where the Hunters act more like local militias defending key cities and groups rather than an organized military.

Of course, one can't just decide to become a Hunter. The Hunter hopefuls of the world typically congregate into the four Academies on Remnant: Beacon, Haven, Shade, and Atlas. Each school does things a little differently, and information about them is tightly regulated even within it's home nation. This causes some strife when Hunters of different Nations meet up, but for the most part everyone sticks to their area so it's not a huge issue.

Of course, as heir to such a business as the SDC, there were certain expectations of Whitley, and most of this isn't terribly important for him to know. He would enter Atlas academy as was tradition, but was expected to retire from active duty at the age of 17 so that he could focus on learning to run the company.

Whitley quietly sighs into dinner - a very nice steak with sauteed mushrooms and a side of cubed potatoes paired with a delicious glass of wine that reminds him of a Petrus Merlot - and waves off his eldest sister's curiosity.

It had been a long time since he had had to take orders form anyone, and wasn't particularly enjoying having his life dictated, especially by a man who married into the name. Perhaps a few schemes were needed? Yes, that'd do nicely and help him make sure the last few years hadn't rusted up the machine that is his brain.

'Well, the now metaphorical machine I suppose.' The wide grin on his face goes mostly unnoticed by his family as they eat, them having grown used to his natural expression. All Whitley would have to do now was carefully arrange certain events to occur, and he'd taste freedom once more. He really needs to pick up a journal to keep track of all these plots.

The next few years pass uneventfully. With Winter being about 5 years older than him, and Weiss being 2 years older, they scarcely interacted. This only worsened when Winter and Weiss eventually started their training.

Both of his sisters proved rapidly to be exceptional with a blade, swift of foot, and incredibly precocious. Weiss in particular would prove to be talented in using the Semblance of Glyphs in interesting ways. Whitley, on the other hand, was much more disappointing in terms of physical prowess.

He was slow, weak, and had absolutely no motivation to improve on either of those facets. The only thing he had going for him was that his mind was sharper than both his sisters combined, and when he felt the desire he could be incredibly tenacious. He also had stamina in spades, not that he'd give up on a chance to lay down and do nothing instead of revealing that fact.

And thus, while his sisters were learning the blade, and pushing their bodies to new heights, Whitley spent most of his time in the library. He got bored after a while, and decided to split what extra time he had between trying to transcribe some music from Earth so he could enjoy them once more, and finally learning how to use a gun properly.

Apparently the issue was that you were supposed to use those little stubs on the top of the gun to aim, rather than eyeballing it and pointing the gun in the general direction of your target. Who knew?

When Whiteley pointed this out, he got a great laugh out of his marksmanship teacher facepalming hard enough to leave a mark. Of course he actually knew how to use a gun, he just had shaky hands thanks to all the machinery in them and never had the time to actually work on fixing his aim, what with plots constantly needing upkeep and surveillance. Now that his body wasn't 75% machine and aside from keeping up with his readings, he had more than enough time to work on fixing that particular issue.

Either way, on Whitley's tenth birthday, his father lead him down into a basement that Whitley had previously been forbidden from entering. The room was pretty basic. Grey walls and floor, golden depictions of humans first learning to utilize Aura and push back the black Grimm, and the blue sigil of the Schnee Family hanging over a gold figure wearing a red scarf, holding up what is almost certainly supposed to represent the first piece of Dust ever mined. It's gaudy and Whitley loves it.

After the needlessly extravagant hallway is a circular room with an altar in the very center. On the opposite side of the podium is Jaques. Suit ironed to perfection, and not a hair out of place like normal for the pair of white-haired men.

"Whitley. Precisely on time, as usual." Whitley grins and gives an over the top bow, sharp blue eyes piercingly focused on his father's own sky blue orbs.

"But of course. To arrive at any other point is unacceptable, especially on a day as momentous as this." A small twitch in Jaques mouth is the closest he gets to a smile, and probably the most he's found himself capable of since that day ten years ago.

Whitley feels no sadness for the husk of a man turned cold-hearted business powerhouse, though a smidge of pity might be awarded to him in regards to having to deal with both the emotional trauma of losing a wife and leading a company at the same time. Only a smidge though. One can't let pigs like him think that just because they hold money they know real power.

"Anyways, I am sure that you have already deduced why you are here. would you care to share what you have theorized?"

Jacques was always doing things like this: asking Whitley and his sisters to critically analyze every situation and pay close attention to their surroundings. Whitley is sure that this would be good practice learning how to lead people, if he didn't already have several decades of said experience already.

"Well, gauging by the fact that my sisters once entered this room as normal people yet left as those with access to their Aura, I can surmise that this is the location where we shall hold my Awakening."

Another half twitch, and JAques gives a few short claps. Probably the closest Whitley's ever going to get to actual parental pride. Thank Gott that he had outgrown that long before he was even referred to as The Major.

"Indeed. This is the ancestral Awakening room of the Schnee family. Your sisters had their Awakening here, as did your mother, and her father, and every Schnee before him. Now, if you would kindly lay down on the Altar, we can begin."

Mentally shrugging, Whitley does as asked, and lays down on the cold metal. As soon as he does, Jacques opens a side compartment that had blended in exceptionally well to the metal of the altar itself. Taking out a few wires, Jacques attaches a few devices that remind Whitley of heart monitors to his arm. Whitley's arm that is, not Jaques'.

"These are a relatively recent addition. Created by a scientist by the name of Pinocchio Polendina, these little devices will monitor your Aura as it Awakens, analyze the frequencies and the energy put out by your Aura, and tell us what your statistics are. I trust you've done your reading?"

Giving a slight nod, neither man speaks for a moment as Jaques finishes setting up the machinery, giving Whitley a faint taste of nostalgia. It had been a bit over a decade since he was last on an operating table, even if this one wasn't quite designed for his usual procedures. Finally finishing, Jacques walks to the part of the altar that Whitley's head lays on, and he grabs his son's head lightly. He then begins to speak,

"For it is in passing that we engrave our time on the world. Our name shall invoke awe. Our blades shall invoke fear. Protect those who serve you, and destroy those who dare defy you. I release your soul, and by my grace, set thee upon the world."

As Jaques speaks, a soft sky blue light emanates from him. Slowly enveloping his hands, it begins to flow into Whitley, who immediately gasps in surprise as he feels something inside him shatter. From deep within, he can feel a well of power begin to surge forward and outward from him.

Where Jacques' Aura is like ice, Whitley's is like fire. A bright gold colour that illuminates the entire room, the flickering aura moves and shifts like fire and is thick enough that Jaques instinctively snaps his hands back before it can touch him, as though fearing he would actually burn.

The bonfire lasts for a few more seconds before slowly fading away, leaving an exhilarated Whitley, who sits up and stares at his hands in wonder. In the reflection of the metal beneath him, Whitley grins impossibly wide as he watches his eyes turn the same brilliant shade of piercing gold as the had been when he was The Major, before they slowly fade back into blue.

 **Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Kumpel**

 **Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!**

While Whitley is just barely containing the string of maniacal laughter threatening to spill out, Jacques coughs into his gloved hand and composes himself. Looking over the data on his scroll - a sort of handheld technological device that acts as both phone and computer at the same time, despite being small enough to fit into a coat pocket - his eyebrows shoot upward for half a moment before he gains control over himself once more.

"Well, congratulations Whitley. Enhancement: D-. Shielding: B-. Regeneration: A. Recharge: A+. Aura Capacity: SSS. You literally have more Aura than both your sisters and I combined. Granted, you are physically only slightly more powerful than a normal civilian and your shielding is average, but i'm almost positive that the number of people who have more raw Aura than you number less than a dozen in all of Remnant."

Whitley has to admit to being rather impressed with himself. He had expected to be pretty average in most things, given his lack of magical ability in his last life, so having his Regeneration and Recharge as above average and an insane Capacity is a pleasant surprise. Perhaps his sheer unwillingness to die had something to do with it? Well, food for later thought he supposes.

"So, what now?" Whitley slowly removes the various sensors attached to him and sits up.

He feels incredible. Is this what it felt like to have the power of a Vampire, without the downsides? Is this how HE felt? Whitley must admit that he can understand a little clearer how such power could be intoxicating.

"Now, you resume your training. I've been keeping tabs on your progress through your instructors and while I am impressed with your academic abilities, your physical traits leave much to be desired. A weakness I suppose you inherited from myself. I always more of a businessman than a fighter. Regardless, it would behoove you to remedy your weaknesses when it comes to combat. Be it physical training, practice with your Semblance, or enlisting the help of our master weaponsmiths to help you craft a weapon fitting of your station. You will not show weakness. Anything less than perfect both on and off the battlefield would belittle the Schnee name."

"Of course father. I shall think upon what you've said. I think i'll start with learning how to properly utilize my Semblance, and perhaps craft a weapon fitting our name once I grow a little more comfortable with my innate abilities." Jacques pauses for a moment in contemplation before nodding.

"So be it. Now, if I recall correctly, you have some free time for the next two hours before your math lessons start for today. I would suggest visiting your sisters in the gym. Perhaps as they've more time to learn, they can offer you some pointers on your Semblance." Whitley knows a silent dismissal when he hears one, and bows deeply to his paternal unit before swiftly exiting the room.

As he walks down the halls, he tugs his gloves tighter onto his hands out of habit. He can still feel his Aura roiling and swirling under his skin. Like his engine had overheated, but without the pain. He can still feel the flames of his spirit wanting to let loose. He has to actively take a moment as he steps up to the door in front of the gym, centering himself and calming his manic grin back into a normal smile. With a suitable amount of flair, he pushes the dual doors open with both hands.

The three people in the large gymnasium stop what they're doing, and deciding to make his entrance even more captivating, Whitley reaches within himself, and lets his Aura flare up for a second. His form is covered with golden flames for a moment before they fade out. He observes his dear sisters reactions.

Winter, ever the frosty picture of perfection, regains her composure near instantly and sheathes her saber in the hilt on her belt as she turns to him fully. She nods towards him as a greeting, face emotionless though Whiteley can read some curiosity in her eyes. Weiss is less reserved.

"Ah, Whitley? Is that really you? I see you went through your Awakening today. Congratulations, little brother!" she tries to maintain winters professionalism, though her smile still breaks through.

"Indeed. Thank you, dear Weiss. Father instructed me to start taking my training more seriously, and I agreed. I was hoping that perhaps you two could give me some pointers in utilizing our Semblance?"

"Of course! I'm not too good at it yet, but Winter is great and i'm willing to do my best to help." Winter's response is more muted, simply being a nod of the head, but Whitley supposes that that's the best he's going to get out of her.

Being led by one hand into the center of the training room, Weiss pulls out a little notebook shaped like a white cat and flips it open to a dog eared page. Reading over her notes a few times, she nods to herself before putting it away once more. Clearing her throat into her hand, she starts to speak, voice clear and obviously a poor attempt at mimicking a teacher.

"The Schnee family, as the only recorded family in the history of Remnant to develop a Semblance that is inherited across generations is subsequently the family to have done the most research into Semblances. Because of this, our knowledge of how Semblances work and how to bring them forth is second to none.

Now, leaving the various Glyphs, their functions, and how to best utilize each of them to optimise combat ability, let us begin by explaining the three primary functions of the Glyphs: Enhancement, Elements, and Echoes. Enhancement Glyphs use Aura to amplify a certain ability of the person affected by them. This can be either making them stronger, faster, or more durable. The basic 'shield' Glyph falls under this category as does the 'stepping stone' Glyph.

Element Glyphs are those which have been enhanced by Dust to create a certain effect, like casting forth a fireball, calling down a strike of lightning, or even altering gravity itself. The more powerful the Dust crystal used to fuel such Glyphs is directly correlated to how powerful the effect is.

The third type of Glyph is the Echo Glyph. Found in the third generation of Schnee by one Vermillion Schnee, the Echo Glyph has the power to create a solid construct of aura that bears the same appearance and basic abilities of anyone the Schnee in question has defeated, be they human, Faunus, or Grimm. Of course, it is only a construct rather than a true replication of the being, meaning human Echoes lack intelligence as well as the power to utilise Aura or any Semblance they had in life.

Now that that's out of the way, let's start your training with the most fundamental and important facet of the Schnee Semblance: summoning a Glyph. It's a pretty straight forward process. Focus your Aura into your hand and imagine projecting it onto the air in front of you similar to painting or conducting."

Whitley stares at Weiss in mild surprise. He knew that his sister had put a lot of effort into catching up with his intellect, but he didn't know that she had memorised the tutorial section of the 'Schnee Training Manual' that he had stumbled on a few years ago. He already knew everything she had just said, but felt that letting her try to explain things would make her feel better and pretended to be clueless.

Of course, knowing and being able to do are two entirely different things. He has the knowledge, now it's time to see if he has the talent. Whitley reaches within himself, pulling on that indomitable determination he was well known for. Slowly, so as to not over charge the technique which was something several generations of Schnee had complained about being incredibly easy to do, he covers his right hand in the golden flames of his Aura. His eyes flash golden for a second as he slashes his hand across the air in front of him, imagining a basic Glyph taking shape in front of him.

An abstract circular shape wavers into existence a few feet in front of Whitley, the same pure gold of his Aura, before shattering like glass and fading. Weiss claps in support while Winter silently nods her head slightly. Whitley's face twists into a sharp smile. Finally, he has some power of his own.

The next three months pass fairly quickly for the young boy. Most of his free time has been spent practicing with his new powers, testing his limits and carefully notating his strengths and weaknesses.

It would appear that his unusually high levels of Aura capacity means he can craft far more Glyphs then either of his sisters before feeling the drain, and his high intellect and experience multitasking and planning several steps in advance allows him to utilise multiple Glyphs at once while his sisters can only hold a few Glyphs at a time. However, it would appear that his high Aura capacity has a downside in that he usually overcharges his Glyphs causing them to be unstable.

His lack of talent for physical activity seems to have carried over to his Semblance as well, with Enhancement Glyphs being all but useless to him. His Elemental Glyphs were better, but again his over-the-top power meant that rather than the controlled bursts that Weiss or Winter were capable of his Glyphs released an explosion of destructive energy in one burst. He hadn't bothered trying to use the Echo Glyph yet, seeing as he would have no way of telling if it was successful or not until he actually defeated someone with his own two hands.

In between training his Semblance and spending some time researching weaponry in order to have a half-way decent one created for him, Whitley somehow accidentally agreed to follow his father on a trip to one of the SDC mines. If memory serves, he had been reading a book about infusing dust into steel during forging to increase its affinity with dust as well as possibly grant it long term powers when his father had said something or other, and Whitley had said yes without bothering to listen to what was said.

As he looks out the window of the bullhead he rides in, whitley wishes he had paid more attention to what was going on around him. Perhaps a decade spent in peace and security had dulled his mind a little? Possible. He'd have to work on that.

Landing, the two male Schnees are greeted by a sweaty overweight man who stands there rubbing his hands together nervously. Whitley can instantly tell based on the pristine dress shirt and pants compared to the generally filthy area that this is the manager of this particular mine, and he's hoping that Jacques doesn't find anything to be displeased about.

Whitley listens in to the greetings with half an ear as he looks about what he can see of the mine from here. All in all it's about what he would expect from something in his first two decades of life, as opposed to the raw opulence and technological intricacies he had come to expect of this world. The whole thing aside from the main building is made of stone, workers wear ragged clothes without any safety gear, they wield pickaxes, and push carts by hand on tracks.

All in all it's terribly inefficient and in ten seconds Whitley could probably list about a dozen ways to increase safety and production speed. If he recalls correctly, pickaxes are a terrible choice for mining Dust, seeing as how one wrong strike could set off a vein, collapsing the tunnel and killing anyone in it. Not that he cares about the people, but it would be a waste of money and time to have to restart a whole tunnel, let alone a whole mine because some fool thinks it's not worth it to provide basic security and equipment to his workers.

Whitley follows his father and the manager, whose name he didn't catch and couldn't care less about to be honest, as they walk inside for tea. Whitley would have preferred some coffee, but what can you do. The next hour is spent with the two men talking numbers. Whitley listens in a bit closer at this point, though more out of mounting boredom than actual interest.

As expected, the amount of Dust harvested relative to number of workers and hours put in is pitiful. There have also been no less than six accidents since the start of the financial year, which Whitley is sure could have been prevented. There have also been multiple protests made by the Faunus population over the low wages and dangerous conditions, not that the manager looks interested in listening to them. Whitley lays his head against an open palm and leans on his side of the couch provided to the Schnee men.

"Does this conversation bore you, Whitley?" Oh, he hadn't expected to be called out so quickly by Jacques.

"To put it bluntly, it does father. It's plain to see that there are several issues present that this man either refuses to see or refuses to act on, and his constant begging for our praise irritates me." The manager sputters in indignation but the two white haired men easily ignore it.

"Oh? So you believe that you could do better?" Whitley waves his free hand dismissively.

"I don't believe so, no. I know I can do much better." Whitley had already thought of at least six ways he could triple the profits from this place, and three of them would only take about two years to fully realise.

"Very well then. Please, elaborate on how you would improve upon this mine. Spare no detail." Whitley has to resist the urge to roll his eyes; he knows a test when he hears one.

"For starters, I'd raise the wages earned to just over what's generally considered the average wage. It would cut into the bottom line a little at first, but it would do wonders for our PR and would stop most if not all of those pesky protests and strikes that also bite into our sales. If we put the right spin on it, we could even market the move as a charity case, building reputation with both the Faunus and Faunus-supporters. Secondly, update the tools and add some safety equipment to the mine. Fewer accidents means people are more likely to come back to work, and the cost of constantly replacing workers and running damage control on accidents after the fact far outsripe the cost for ensuring that the accidents don't happen in the first place. It would also help sell the whole 'equality' thing, and bring in more willing workers and customers. That and it's just common sense that better tools for the workers means they work faster which increases how much we can sell. We could also raise the pricing of Dust crystals by 5% or so, citing the new measures as the reason despite our coffers easily being enough to handle the initial costs until they start returning dividends. Of course, raise the price too much and people will buy less, but raise it by too little and we will actually have to front the cost of the changes." the two elder men in the room sit in silence for a moment, before the manager starts to grind his teeth audibly and turn an interesting shade of red.

"You. You would dare tell me to raise the wages I pay those, those damn animals?! I should be praised for even giving those damn freaks jobs! Why should I care if one or two of them keel over while working, it's not like they're human! And why the hell should I bend over and let the fucking terrorists win?! Who the hell do you-!" the manager suddenly cuts off as the room drops twenty degrees in temperature.

Frost starts to slowly creep over the floor from under Whitley, where a large Glyph rests under his feet as he twiddles with a blue Dust crystal in his hand. The temperature continues to drop and the ice starts to creep up the managers pants, causing him to stutter and look between the two Scnhee men before landing on Whitley.

"Oh no don't mind me. Please, continue yelling and screaming at me. I'm sure that this won't have any negative side effects on your job security. After all, I'm just a kid. Oh, and I wouldn't suggest moving too much. See, I have trouble regulating exactly how cold I can make things with ice Dust. One little slip in my focus and, well, I'm sure you'd look great in a wheelchair. But please, go on with what you were saying." He looks desperately to Jacques, as if expecting him to help.

"I must say, this tea is quite delicious. I simply must know what brand you buy this from so I can purchase it for myself." Jacques takes another slow sip, deliberately ignoring the situation.

Needless to say, but the manager quickly fell docile and agreed that Whitleys words have some merit to them. He'd have to crunch the numbers with his accountants first, but he was sure that he could enact some basic reforms within a few weeks and enact the larger changes within two or three months depending on how much the wage increase drops the bottom line.

After that, he and Jacques apparently had something to discuss in private, so Whitley was allowed to wander the grounds provided he stick with a team of three Atlas soldiers that Jacques had hired for the day. Whitley gladly took the opportunity to stretch his legs.

Wandering through the main building itself was boring. White walls occasionally smudged with dirt as you get closer to the workers area, and the sounds of grunting and metal striking stone echo endlessly. It's only as Whitley decides to take his walk outside that things become interesting.

Just as he opens the door leading outside, a small faunus girl is pushing a cart full of coal and stones. Whitley is momentarily intrigued by this girl. About his age, white hair and a fluffy tail matted with dirt and mud, as well as ears on top of her head that look somewhat canine in shape - if whitley had to guess, he'd say she were some sort of wolf Faunus - her darkly tanned skin broken by several white scars crossing over her body with one particularly bad one stretching across her neck. Whitley would guess that it came from a mining accident and based on its size she's more than likely mute because of it.

This child is apparently exhausted, as they drop to their knees and don't get up. A SDC employee who stands nearby stomps on over and starts shouting at her to get back up. Whitely almost turns around and ignores the whole incident until the guard slams a baton onto the girls head, and Whitley happens to catch a glimpse of her eyes as she struggles to stand back up.

Hatred. Pure unadulterated hatred for both the figure in front of her, as well as Whitley, who happens to be in her line of sight. In fact, judging by the way her eyebrows narrow and she bares some elongated canines, he'd have to say that she hates him more than she hates the guard that just hit her.

"Now get back to your damn job by the count of three or you're gonna wish you died like the bitch you are!" the guard shouts out a countdown of three, but is ignored as the young Faunus ignores him to glare past him.

"Alright, you asked for it!" Raising his baton to smack it down on her again, he's about to put this girl in the infirmary as a lesson in obedience before a calm and aristocratic voice behind him stays his hand.

"Now now, there's no need for such crude violence." Twitching his eyebrows in irritation, the guard whirls around to yell at whoever just interrupted him, only for the words to get caught in his throat.

"M-m-m-mister Schnee? W-what can I do for you sir?" the young heir to the company that pays this guards paycheck ignores him and steps closer to the young girl who glares up at the white haired boy, locking her silver eyes with his sky blue.

"Well hello there. My name is Whitley Schnee. What is your name?" Whitley isn't surprised when she growls at him, the sound broken and guttural, no doubt due to her inability to actually answer his question.

"Well it's nice to meet you 'hrmm-hrrr'. Tell me, do you hate me?" her snarl becomes more pronounced, and she starts to dig her nails into the ground under her hands.

"I see. Tell me, what is someone like you doing in a place like this? Financial trouble? Did mommy and daddy send you here to pay some bills of theirs?" the growling gets worse and she actually lunges for him.

He easily sidesteps her clumsy and weak attack. As the guards that came with him and the SDC employee raise their weapons to 'defend' him, Whitley holds up a hand to stop them. They look between each other before shrugging and slowly lowering their arms.

"Did I touch a nerve? I'm going to guess that I was wrong about the debt thing. Let's see, your parents are nowhere to be seen, and you're obviously mute thanks to that rather large scar. Oh I know, did mommy and daddy die in a mining accident and now you're stuck here trying to make a living?" Whitley sidesteps another lunge, though he's pleased to note the tears now falling down the girls face before she falls to her knees in exhaustion.

"And there it is. So, I'm guessing that you hate the SDC for the death of your parents and therefore hate me despite not knowing the first thing about me. That's fine though. Hate is good. It fuels us to become stronger than the thing that we hate. Tell me, do you want to kill me?" she turns her head slightly, the tears in her eyes doing nothing to mask the raw rage and despair in them.

"Tell me, would you do anything to kill me?" She pauses, but gives a shaky nod, obviously confused on where he's going with this.

"Well, that settles it then! Guards, please escort this young girl to the nearest bathroom, and bring her some new clothes. She's going to want to look presentable for her new job. After she's changed, bring her to meet me at the bullhead." the guards all stand around confused.

"Uhmm, sir? If you don't mind me asking, what exactly are you talking about?" Whitley laughs slightly.

"Isn't it obvious? From this day onward, this young lady shall serve as my personal bodyguard. After all, if she truly wants to be the one to kill me, she'll have to make sure nobody else gets to me first."

"Excuse me for saying so sir, but isn't hiring someone who wants to kill you to protect you a bit counter intuitive. And, dare I say it, insane?" whitley chuckles again.

"You're lucky i'm not my father. He'd have you shot for that last remark. But no, I understand your point. I'm simply choosing to ignore it. Now I think that that's enough questions for today. You're paid to make sure I'm safe, not to question my decisions."

That last part is said with a certain glare in Whitleys eyes, promising that if they don't follow through with his demands then he's going to ensure they don't have a job come tomorrow morning. It's a look Jacques had perfected and would be proud to know that Whitley had learned to emulate.

As Whitley walks back to the bullhead, I idly wonders how he is going to explain the situation to his 'father'. To be honest with himself, Whitley had only done what he did because the little wolf girl had reminded him of someone from his past. A different mute wolf who also wanted him dead. Isn't it curious how history has a tendency to repeat itself?

 **Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!**


End file.
